Dreams of the Forgotten
by daiyaonna
Summary: Somehow, the quiet ones are always the strongest...and the most tormented of us all. Suguruonesided TohmaEiri? Oneshot


Disclaimer: I do not own Gravitation. Sorry.  
  
Warnings: Yaoi, Pedophilia, and other stuff I'm notorious for.  
  
Author's Note: This is a story in the style I so call SWAP (Smut With A Purpose). I hope everyone enjoys it, and please keep an open mind while reading!  
  
_Dreams of the Forgotten_  
  
I stand before my synthesizer, alone and empty.  
  
My fingers are numb as they rest upon those white and black keys of my life, slowly burning another hole into my already non-existent heart, and my eyes sting with dry tears. I can't help shaking my head, either, ruffling those normally perfect locks of darkened emerald into untamed chaos.  
  
And, somehow, I don't remember how to cry. The flood refuses to come and wash away this unbearable pain in my body, in my soul. I've been molded into this against me will, but I think...  
  
I think I don't care anymore.  
  
I think...I just want to give up and quit.  
  
No more music.  
  
No more problems.  
  
No more Fujisaki Suguru.  
  
No more me.  
  
I suppose I should probably start from the beginning, fill in the holes, live the invisibility again, but it won't help. Nothing can erase this aching void in my sides, the throbbing in my brain when it's quiet, like it is now. It shouldn't have happened this way, and yet, somewhere, something tells me it would have been unavoidable. There had been much to lose, but so much more to gain...at least, I'd thought so.  
  
I couldn't have been more wrong.  
  
I would have been happier, behind my keyboard, hidden under the music, beneath the charisma and glitter of pink hair and supple vocals, but I stepped out of the box, stumbled from the normal of what I had known, from being a sixteen-year-old boy ignorant of everything but sheet music.  
  
The tears...  
  
I can feel them.  
  
They're coming now, faster and faster still. My knees are shaking, and I know they want to give out as I wait...and wait and wait and wait. Everyone in the studio is gone –the singer to his male lover, the guitarist to his apartment, the manager to God knows where- but I haven't a destination, a person to return to. This studio is the only place that will accept me for being a fraud, a liar, a cheat. It doesn't care that I've sinned, broken every law known to the spiritual soul. It doesn't care just as everyone else I know doesn't care.  
  
Sometimes, I wonder what I did to deserve all of this. Was I bad? Did I do something wrong by accepting an impossible offer...by saying yes? Is that the cause of my grief? Is that why I'm crying now? Because of...that?  
  
Because of...him?  
  
But, I don't want to think about it. I can't, and I wont. Yet, it's hard to forget those moments, to forget the magnitude of my sin and push it aside. I've been a bad, bad boy and have yet to be punished.  
  
I suppose it doesn't matter in the end, anyway. Why am I here if not to reconcile my crime? I'd gladly give my blood, my body...these tears to know why. Why this is happening. Why I cannot stop. Why this has to be a secret.  
  
I don't want to live with this burning in my soul, this laceration of my heart. To be seen for who I am and not for what I can "expertly" do...  
  
I would gladly give my life.  
  
My chest begins to throb, and I hear the beat in my head.  
  
Tap, tap, tap, tap.  
  
Like a symbol, a soft drum...  
  
W-wait.  
  
That's not my heart...  
  
"Ah...there you are." His voice is like a god's, beautiful and luscious, tempting...terrifying. I try to wipe my face, but his hands are upon my wet skin, gloved and smelling of leather, before I can move. I look up from the floor where I have fallen and feel miniscule beneath his kneeling height. I feel scared beyond belief. He doesn't comfort me, though. His mouth is already attacking mine, devouring in a single swallow, his tongue hot lava, his lips as soft as velvet. I try not to close my eyes, it will be my undoing if I do, but I can't stand the sight of his blonde hair or pale, pale skin. He's a powerful ghost that cannot be exorcised. I sob against him, my fingers clutching at the material of my jeans, and I breathe shakily through my nose even as he pulls away, licking his lips like he's tasted something sweet.  
  
I know he's just begun, and I have no chance of escape.  
  
"I wanted to see you today," he whispers seductively, staring through me with those ugly-beautiful turquoise eyes, and I turn away from him. I hate this, I tell myself. I hate how he uses me.  
  
His boy visited him today. At least, that's what he calls HIM, that's who he pretends HE is. He's told me so many times how much he desires his boy, his secret love, his shameful sin. I don't care. What about me? Am I his substitute for this sin he cannot have? I guess. He always searches for me after his boy leaves.  
  
Why me? Why me?  
  
"Is...that so?" I know to play the part. I know to pretend. He would hurt me, otherwise. Not physically...oh, no. He knows better than to mare my skin or bruise my face. He knows I'm delicate, and people would ask. He's far worse than any form of bodily harm. His smile is dangerous, a visual poison. His mind is...lethal.  
  
"You want to play?" He asks a stupid question.  
  
No. I don't want to play, but I don't have a choice. I don't think I ever did.  
  
"You want to-" He's kissing me again, hungrily, angrily.  
  
I know now that his boy did come, that his boy was here.  
  
I cannot stand HIM. HE smells of smoke, like an ashtray. It's disgusting. HE's like a walking liquor bottle, the aroma of beer is so strong. Yet, his boy is his boy. HE will always be his...forever. Even though HE has another, HE belongs to him, and because I have no one, I belong to him, too.  
  
The story of my life...  
  
His hands move from my face to my hair, smoothly tearing my head back so that he can attack my neck. I arch into him for the sake of pretending. I have to.  
  
I have to.  
  
My eyes close, and I drift into that empty realm free of emotion, praying for silent salvation. I want to make believe that his still-gloved hands aren't reaching under my sweater, tormenting my skin, that he's not tearing at my jeans, stretching the fabric and popping the button as he slides the zipper down.  
  
Yet, those sounds drive me from that safe sanctuary I never seem to find these days. I hear something clatter to my right and jerk unintentionally.  
  
The resounding smack is loud.  
  
And, it hurts.  
  
My cheek burns with his handprint.  
  
It is then that I realize I had been reaching for a microphone stand. To anchor me? To fend him off?  
  
I doubt it.  
  
As much s I hate this, I know I like it, too.  
  
That awareness suddenly makes me queasy. I think I'm going to be sick...but not with his tongue back in my mouth. Not with...  
  
Oh! His fingers...  
  
I clench my eyes shut and fist my hands at my sides.  
  
No, Suguru. Don't think. Don't surrender! Fight it. Fight...him.  
  
I hear myself moan and know, then, it's too late.  
  
Everyone must surrender to their god sooner or later, I suppose. I can't help it, either. No one can. He's surreal, like a fabricated dream in the form of a living nightmare. His beauty is sublime imitation, his hair too holy, his eyes too bland, but in his entirety, he is captivating, stunning, a phenomenon of the world. I recall wanting to be like him...to BE him. To have his talent and prove I could exist without shadows was all I could think about.  
  
It's changed now.  
  
My dream...  
  
My dream is to escape these confined walls, to evade his touch, his advances.  
  
I want to say no.  
  
No, don't do this to me! Don't you see it hurts?  
  
Of course, my mouth never opens, my lips never move. I don't want to be the forgotten one anymore. I don't want to be a slave to my loneliness. My silence already fills the position for that, anyway. It's my master, and I cannot disobey...like I cannot disobey him.  
  
"Turn over." His voice is quiet but compelling. I'm dazed, unsure of what he means, but he's holding me against him, twisting me around, pressing me flat on my stomach.  
  
I know what this is now.  
  
I know, and I don't want to.  
  
Not that.  
  
Not...  
  
"Ahh!" My scream pains my throat.  
  
I don't want to think about what he's doing. I can't. I can't.  
  
I-  
  
My back arches, and it's like I'm thrusting against the floor. I can't even comprehend how my pants are around my knees and not around my waist, tangling my legs. His fingers are dry, and...and there's no word to describe how much it hurts. He wants to split me open. I know he does. He's always been ruthless, always been hateful and twisted, and I'm the only one he confides in. His wife doesn't know. His boy doesn't care.  
  
I tear into my lip with my teeth when he spreads me wider, digs into my hips with a free, always-gloved hand.  
  
My brain will not stop drifting, thinking of a time other than this.  
  
I can't, but...  
  
But, what of The Incident? What of the man who tarnished so many reputations with a single act of loathing?  
  
What of THAT?  
  
Can anyone remember?  
  
His Mika-girl had not comforted him. His Eiri-boy had merely ignored him.  
  
Who had he ran to? Certainly not them.  
  
The way the rain had shadowed his hair, chilled his pale skin...  
  
The way he had clutched at me, kissed my mouth, whispered in my ear...  
  
They way we had touched, made love...  
  
I shudder as he slides another finger into me.  
  
I fell in love with him, then, that moment so long ago.  
  
I'm in love with him now.  
  
My own cousin.  
  
"Unh..."  
  
I think that's why I never say a word, never protest. I want him to find solace within me, come to me when he aches, when his wife doesn't care, when his boy sneers in his face.  
  
That's why I should be punished.  
  
I can already hear my conscience patronizing me for it.  
  
'Look what you did to yourself, Suguru,' it says. 'Look what you did.'  
  
I know.  
  
I know.  
  
I'm so sorry.  
  
I didn't mean to, but it's not like anyone cares.  
  
No one know what passes between us.  
  
No one knows about the looks he gives me when I'm standing in his office, clothed or otherwise.  
  
No one knows the feel of his arms, the sugary confection of his tongue, his mouth.  
  
No one knows the taste of his tears when he has cried.  
  
No one knows the softer side of the blonde-haired demon, the fragility of his soul, like I do.  
  
What has become of him, the one I know still exists somewhere in that broken shell of a man?  
  
He makes no sound as he shoves headlong into my defenseless yet wanton body. Even if he does, I cannot hear him. I twist, crying out softly though all I want to do is scream...and scream and scream until nothing remains of my voice. His physical presence is as overbearing as his aura.  
  
But...  
  
But it hurts so much more.  
  
I know the blood is going to flow.  
  
I think my back has gone numb.  
  
I can't even feel my brain.  
  
Yet, he's somehow forcing me to my knees with a firm press of his hand, pulling me from the flat angle of the floor, my handlebar of masked emotion. I'm complying without complaint despite my lack of processed thought, and I fall snuggly against him, his arms a shield of lust around my chest.  
  
Lock and key...  
  
Light and darkness...  
  
We fit far more perfectly together than they, far more beautifully. We complete each other, compliment as fine as any color.  
  
We are the black and white keys upon the synthesizer, one upon the other, bound together forever, intertwined and lovely.  
  
That's what I want to believe, anyway.  
  
I know it's just the opposite. There's nothing beautiful about this, about us. This is revolting, vile, some lustful shortcoming, a genetic mistake.  
  
What would happen if someone saw? What would happen if the door opened and we were broadcast to the world?  
  
There is nothing pretty about what we're doing.  
  
I'm on my knees, head down, chest heaving, and he's behind me, hands tight on my hip and lower back, pelvis rocking, cock violating.  
  
Would this be beauty to anyone?  
  
It's a cold, dry fuck with the exception of sweat.  
  
Not sex...  
  
Not making love...  
  
I shudder uncontrollably as he drives forward, harder, faster, his rhythm chaotic. I can hear him groaning now, quietly, barely a sound in the empty room, deep for one so effeminate as he, and he thrusts so hard I lose my balance.  
  
I fall...and fall and fall.  
  
Definitely not making love.  
  
I wouldn't hurt as much as this.  
  
It COULDN'T hurt as much as this.  
  
The cold of the floor is now pressing against my ear, emptying my brain of everything, my body of feeling, my soul of salvation. I hear crying, and I can't comprehend that I'm the one shedding the tears, that I'm the one breaking inside, burning, aching, utterly alone. Heat suddenly floods me, washing my insides with prized seed, the semen of a God...  
  
My God...  
  
My...  
  
My creator of pain and bleeding and sorrow.  
  
I know all of them because of him...because he was stupid enough to mistake my childhood infatuation for lust...because...because I was too stupid to open my mouth and scream to the world...scream that Seguchi Tohma, beloved husband, worshipped music idol, wonderful president, was a pedophile...a cold-hearted, selfish abuser of me, Fujisaki Suguru.  
  
My fault...  
  
This had to be...my fault.  
  
He wouldn't have been like this if I had never existed, right?  
  
RIGHT?!  
  
I have to keep telling myself that...forever.  
  
His weight presses me flat for a moment, ironically delicious on my heated yet cold skin, and then he pulls back, that ever-filling presence slipping away, leaving me empty.  
  
Empty...  
  
Like my very soul and everything else in my life...  
  
I deserve this. I do.  
  
I sense his eyes, devoid of that passing desire, on my back, icy and penetrating. I merely turn my face into the floor, dry, bleeding lips pressed to the warmed tile, tears running helplessly down my cheeks, puddling against my skin.  
  
Leave...  
  
Please...  
  
Please, leave.  
  
Don't stand there and watch me like THAT.  
  
"The floor is cold," he finally murmurs after straightening himself, righting his pants, the hat that is never removed from his head, and I continue to lay there, shaking on the inside.  
  
To say that...  
  
It hurts, cousin. It really hurts...  
  
But, you couldn't possible know, could you?  
  
You wouldn't know the pain or humiliation...or the love I feel despite it all.  
  
I hear his footsteps as he retreats, the click of the door as he closes it softly behind him. The judge has spoken and has left me to rot in my prison...alone.  
  
Always, always alone.  
  
Slowly, I sit up, saliva caking my flesh, sticking to the linoleum beneath me. The room spins even as I grab me head to steady myself, and when I manage to look around, I wince. Everything's a mess. More than one microphone stand is on the floor, the synth, my synth, crookedly twisted upon its base.  
  
I must have been desperate to get away, to run from what he wanted to do, but the slight sting of my cheek as I carefully touch my face tells me he wouldn't have allowed it. He keeps me captive inside these walls, broken and shaped to obey his every command, to forget I'm a person and only his puppet.  
  
A sob escapes my throat.  
  
I know I cannot escape from this, I'm bound to it forever, helpless to hide, and the very thought sickens me beyond belief.  
  
I've forgotten myself, who I am.  
  
I can no longer remember my OWN thoughts, what to say, how to act, how to be my own person. I've brought this upon myself, and all I can do is wait for him to come again, to push me around, use me because he cannot have what he really wants...and it's not me.  
  
It's never been me.  
  
I rub my hands over my eyes, trying to wipe away the fever inside me, the pain and hate and unbelievable abuse.  
  
I want to be saved, to be taken from this hell on earth.  
  
Anything has to be better than this.  
  
It has to be...  
  
IT HAS TO BE!  
  
Help me. Someone, please...  
  
Help me...  
  
But, if I've forgotten myself...  
  
Has everyone else forgotten me, too?  
  
OWARI


End file.
